


Handsome Jack's Peaceful Resting

by charybdis_nerdrage



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Handsome Jack - Freeform, Loneliness, afterdeath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21089108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charybdis_nerdrage/pseuds/charybdis_nerdrage
Summary: Handsome Jack is dead, there is no more menace against Pandora for the time being. No more threats of the end of the world. Jack only has himself in Hell. What has the Devil left for him? What would he be stuck with for the rest of time?





	Handsome Jack's Peaceful Resting

**Author's Note:**

> This story is probably going to be a short one, based on an idea I had months ago. I just thought it would be interesting, exploring Handsome Jack's inner torment, and maybe what would torture him the most after death.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!

The bullet left the Vault Hunter's gun, and lead pierced Handsome Jack's skull. He stopped speaking, blood and brain pouring out onto the ancient ground below. He was having a final breakdown, what a way to go. The world immediately left him, gone with a sudden empty blackness that couldn't be filled with anything, not even the senseless statues he had bought so many of when we was alive. Black. Everything was black. Jack felt his body go numb, no, he couldn't /feel/ his body anymore. Then, he shot up at the sound of gunfire.

"wha- I-" he croaked, looking around his bedroom. 

The bedroom was the same as it always was, as big as a house. The deep golden tapestry hung from the walls and slung over the mattress the size of two large beds. Jack let his body sink into the comforters. It was only a dream, as all the other's had been. Just another dream from his tortured skull. The fight felt so real, he almost felt like he still had blood painted over his thin body. Jack filled his lungs with the cold air of his home, letting it all out with a long, shaky exhale. He touched his forehead. What he felt wasn't the thick, almost rubbery material he was used to, but the tough scarred skin he condemned all those years ago. His hand stopped, moving down to the soft cushions below again. Where was his mask? Where was the only thing that gave him confidence in this feeble existence? Surely it was around somewhere, he slept with it on anyways. It couldn't have gone far. It must have come off during his nightmare. Of course, looking meant he would have to get up.

He refused the idea. The bed was warm, he thought. Even though it wasn't. The bed had been cold and empty for years. It had felt lonely every night since she left him. He still remembered diving down, warning her of the danger, even grabbing her arm to pull her back down. It was all too late. By the time she was down with him on the ground, she had so many bullet holes in her body, she was almost unrecognizable. Jack recognized her though. He was the only one that really did. He still remembered how her face was supposed to look like, undamaged and perfect, the one face that stayed for him. Not for the money, or the fame, or the looks, but for him. He sighed again and traced the edges of the damaged face, looking for those familiar hinges he bolted into his bones long ago. They were there, old and worn. He fiddled with the metal on his chin absentmindedly. Maybe he should get up. It must be late. At this thought, he looked over at the clock on his bedside table, which was sat next to his glasses and the old romance novel he had picked up again only a few weeks ago.

After a few more minutes in bed, he slid off the mattress, letting his feet hit the cold wooden flooring. He let himself stand, naked and exposed. He didn't mind this, as he was most definitely alone in his home. No one had been up here, not even his own girlfriend. Wait, she was dead now, wasn't she? Ah yes, the Vault Hunter must have gotten to her. Lynchwood would be in chaos, wouldn't it. Jack didn't care. It wasn't his job to care about Bandit towns, no matter how strangely organized they were compared to other Bandit towns. The man walked to a door on the other side of the room and stepped into his closet.

The closet itself was the size of a small apartment, filled with jackets, guns, pants, rows of suits, Hyperion merchandise, and robes. He let his fingers glide through the rack of silk robes until his eyes laid upon a black one with a golden interior. He smiled slightly, his favorite of the Hyperion Exclusive set, and his favorite color. He hung the robe over his shoulders, and tied it at his waist. He normally didn't wear underwear underneath, it was never worth it his extra effort. He was much to rich for it.

Jack started walking down his hallways, portraits of himself hung in between every door, no matter how irrelevant the room was. He didn't even remember half of the photo shoots for some of them, or where the pictures had come from, but he knew they captured his essence. At least the one he wished to show the public. Jack then passed by his old office, the door left open for some odd, unexplained reason. Jack looked inside, curious. Then his eyes laid upon a photo he swore he had burned along with the others. It caught him in a trance, and he stepped inside toward the old desk. His hand traced the edge of the frame as he hesitantly picked it up and looked at it.

Angel.

His angel.

She was smiling in this one, she seemed happy. He couldn't remember what she was so excited over. Her eyes were filled with so much joy, they were her mother's eyes. Filled with wonder. He had been so proud of her, she looked about 7 in the photo. Jack let himself smile sadly. This was before the markings appeared, before it all happened. His darling was probably doing something in the kitchen, while maybe he was trying to work on the couch. Angel would always distract him, tug his pant leg and climb on the couch to look at the screen over his shoulder. If it had been anyone else, Jack would have been pissed, but with Angel, he would let her see the world if she wanted. She would have asked what he was doing. Jack always answered something silly and made up, just to see her smile.

Jack was brought back to reality, he placed the photo face down on his desk. Tears were running down his cheeks, which he quickly wiped away. He didn't need to be crying over something that couldn't be helped. Angel was dead. He would never see her again even after death.

Angels belonged in Heaven, after all.

Jack continued on his journey through his home. He made it to the kitchen, the gorgeous room of black marble counters and polished gold cabinet handles. He let out a soft sigh and pressed 'brew' on his coffee machine. He placed his favorite mug underneath the dispenser. The black liquid began to fill the mug at a snail's pace, slow and steady. Pale steam rose from the liquid, filling the air with that familiar smell of coffee that was more expensive than a small domesticated skag pup. The smell reminded him of his grandma, even if his grandma never drank the stuff alone. She always mixed in booze. When she drank the stuff it always ended in a cat being drowned, or with a buzz axe in his thin back. He hated the thoughts of that pain, but he didn't mind the thoughts of his grandma.

Every kid deals with that, every parent does that, right? Well maybe not him. He was the best to angel, everything he did for her was for her own goo-

Nevermind.

He didn't need more thoughts about Angel. Not right now when the highlight of his day was currently filling a mug.

The mug was made of solid gold. He had commissioned it ages ago, and it quickly became his favorites. It had the Hyperion H carved into it carefully. He wanted to trace his fingertips along the carvings, but he knew the liquid inside was hot. He had to wait. When the mug filled, he picked it up and walked away, careful not to pour the stuff on his favorite robe while he took careful sips. The coffee was much too hot, but damn was he desperate for something to start the day off enjoyable.

He stepped out of the kitchen and walked towards the main window. He wanted to see space. Even if Pandora was in the way of the real beauty. He padded his way down the now black tiles, walking towards the giant window that would show him the gorgeous endless vacuum of space. He looked out.

There was nothing.

Everything was black.

Then Jack realized he was dead.

There was no gasp, or sob. He didn't even drop his mug. 

A sad smile pressed onto his face as he looked out into the blackness.

"They won, didn't they. Those psychotic bastards." He said to himself. Yes they had.

Handsome Jack was gone. This was his hell. His hell was reflection. Real thought about his emotions was the one thing he never wanted to do, and the Devil had given him the opportunity to think for once. Here he was, alone in his home. No hope of reaching the outside world, not even an outside world to reach anymore. Just him, a cup of coffee, and blackness. 

"Huh, I guess I was kinda an ass." Jack said simply, as he pressed a button on the window.

Giant curtains covered the window.

Jack would ignore his feelings once more, Satan be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I'm incredibly proud of this, I think I actually wrote something good and thoughtful despite it being so damn short. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked it, and to people that hated it, uh, sorry? 
> 
> I hope I find this kind of energy again, and I might stick with shorter pieces. It's much more fun and easier to think about.


End file.
